


All the Things You Are

by irisbleufic



Series: As Easy As Love 'Verse (& Related Indiscretions) [3]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: 1930s, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/M, Fourth of July, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Horny Teenagers, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, Intersex, Intersex Character, M/M, Multi, Music, Musical References, Partying, Science Boyfriends, Science Bros, Science Husbands, Smoking, Teenagers, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKYI_oiS6G8">
    <i>The dearest things I know / are what you are</i>
  </a>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">[This piece falls between the November 20, 1938 and January 3, 1940 sections of <i>What You Fight For</i>, and it makes references back to <i>So Kiss Me (And Say You Understand)</i>. ]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Things You Are

**July 4, 1939**

“Emmett!” Marty pleaded, dashing after the gleefully cackling pair ahead of him (one of whom was in _heels_ and running far faster than he was). “Listen, I've got a _really_ bad feeling—”

“Marty, don't be such a crumb!” Sylvia called over her shoulder. “How long were you guys gonna hide this place from me, anyway?” She skidded to a halt next to Emmett, who was already opening the storeroom door with his rusty prize of a skeleton key. “I ain't had hardly any fun since Georgie came along, bless his heart, so there's no way I'm gonna let you spoil this for—jeez _Louise_ ,” she breathed as Emmett held open the door for her, beckoning for Marty to follow. “Look at this!”

“Hate to break it to you, but I've been down here lots of times,” Marty said, bolting the door behind them once Emmett had followed him inside. “And _hey_ —what did you call me back there?”

“Crumb?” asked Emmett, casually, already rummaging in the humidor for cigarettes. Marty made an I'll-pass-on-that motion, so Emmett handed a Lucky Strike to Sylvia before sticking one rakishly between his lips, _damn_ him. “It means you're a fink,” he clarified. “A wet sock. A pill.”

“Oh, you mean I'm a loser,” Marty sighed, turning to watch Sylvia light her cigarette. “That's better than the alternatives, I guess.” He took the Lucky Strike from her hand, stole a single cough-ridden drag, and gave it back. “Sorry, but I just can't understand you guys. That's _disgusting_.”

“Which alternative did you have in mind?” asked Sylvia, eyes bright with interest. “Deadbeat?”

“Whatever you do,” Emmett sighed, tapping ash into the tray, “ _don't_ call him chicken.”

“Oh, honey, you ain't _that_ ,” Sylvia reassured Marty, hoisting herself onto the edge of Emmett's desk. She crossed her legs, cigarette clamped between her teeth, and turned to examine the decanter of gin. “So this is why we came down here, huh?” she asked. “Our town Independence Day shin-dig's dry as a bone, so Judge Brown's goody-two-shoes kid is gonna hook us up with some hooch?”

“I, uh, hate to break it to you,” Marty said, bending to fetch the pair of tumblers Emmett kept stashed in the desk-drawer, “but if you're still under the impression Emmett's a limp dishrag, guess again.”

“You have the strangest gaps in your knowledge of slang,” Emmett remarked, watching Marty fill the tumblers a third of the way each. “Apologies, Mrs. McFly. Two of us are going to have to share.”

“For the hundredth time, Emmett, you gotta start calling me my damn _name_ ,” Sylvia insisted, claiming one of the glasses as her own. “Hell, I'll even answer to Trixie if you want. Guess that'd be fitting since they've got me singin' a bit later, right? Some party. Artie already took George home.”

“Yeah, well, it's a lot of excitement for a toddler,” Marty said, frowning as Emmett reopened the decanter and poured another couple shots' worth into the glass they'd be sharing. “Better to get him out of here before the music and the fireworks, you know? Besides, he's got a strict bedtime.”

“Yeah, _Artie_ does,” Sylvia snickered, already finished with her gin, holding out her glass for a refill. “Relax, kiddo,” she told Emmett, who'd dutifully transitioned to topping her up. “Drink.”

“Not too much, he won't,” Marty said, snatching their shared glass while Emmett put the decanter away. “You should see him on more than about a third of one of these,” he added, holding the glass up to the light before grimacing his way through a long swig. “It's not pretty, believe me.”

“If you're implying I can't hold my liquor,” said Emmett, with annoyance, stubbing out his Lucky Strike, “then you've got another thing coming.” He abandoned the half-smoked butt in his ornate ashtray, snatching the glass so fast that Marty ended up with a splash of gin down his shirt.

“Jesus Christ, I'm drinkin' with a couple of high-schoolers,” Sylvia lamented, but she winked at them.

“ _Excuse_ me, but we did both graduate last year,” said Emmett, downing about half the gin with such speed it made _Marty's_ head spin. “Or at least Marty assures me he did before he left home,” he added, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, giving Marty a questioning look.

“Ah, yeah, I—” Marty rubbed the back of his neck, staring off to one side. “More or less, yeah.”

“Grades ain't everything,” said Sylvia, swilling her glass. “Yours truly dropped outta junior high.”

“Yeah, but you're a certifiable math whiz,” Emmett pointed out, already pink-cheeked from the alcohol. “Or at least that's what Father says. You cooked the Tannen Gang's books, he tells me. Admirable.”

Marty tried to get the glass out of Emmett's hand before Emmett could swallow the rest of it, but it was no use. He'd had practically three shots' worth, maybe three and a half, and that would be enough.

Sylvia shrugged, setting her tumbler aside, puffing on what was left of her cigarette. “You either got smarts or you don't, right?” she asked, stubbing out the Lucky Strike, abandoning the remnant beside Emmett's. “Nanna always said I was better around her store than an army of grandsons woulda been.”

“And she was right,” said Marty, hastily, getting an arm around Emmett's waist just as he swayed slightly on his feet. “I think we've gotta get this one back outside. Looks like he could use some air.”

“I am _perfectly_ capable of walking out of here on my own,” Emmett insisted, words too slow and deliberate for comfort. “I just don't think we...should use the window again, so...back door it is.”

“We'd better hope your old man hasn't got it in his head to come looking for us,” Marty muttered, gesturing for Sylvia to pull the chain on the lightbulb overhead while Marty got Emmett over to the door and threw the bolt open. “Hey, Doc,” he said under his breath, tucking a kiss into the curve of Emmett's neck while Sylvia was distracted. “You're kind of a hot mess right now, you know that?”

“As long as you think I'm hot,” Emmett said conspiratorially, having mastered Marty's habitual usage of _that_ word over a year ago, “then I don't really give a care about the mess part.”

“Okay, boys, cut the chit-chat,” Sylvia said, startling Emmett out of leaning in for what Marty was sure had been intended as a kiss on the mouth, “and let's get back up there before I'm late to the stage!”

Marty was sure he must be an even deeper shade of pink than Emmett by now, although Sylvia didn't seem to notice anything was amiss as she breezed past them to lead the way out. Marty managed to fish the key-ring out of Emmett's pocket and get the door locked behind them, but at the expense of Emmett making a few petulant noises over the fact Marty wouldn't let him get in a kiss.

“It's not like she's watching!” Emmett hissed as they proceeded up the hall. “She _must_ know.”

“She may have her suspicions, but I seriously don't wanna test that right now, okay?” Marty replied.

“She spent right around a decade performing for her supper,” Emmett slurred. “I bet she's seen it all.”

 _I bet we'd be a first in every respect if she knew the full extent_ , Marty thought, nodding thanks to Sylvia as she held the back door open into humid, falling dusk. _And I'm as determined to protect you as your parents are, so I'd better keep an eye on your tipsy ass all night._

They ran into a handful of revelers attempting to snatch some privacy as they made their way around the side of the courthouse to the square. It was mostly couples, and not even limited to the young; most were seated in the grass, arms slung around their partners' shoulders and waists. Some had found their way into the shadows, backs and palms pressed against cooling brick. Marty averted his eyes, hoping he didn't know any of the pairs getting up to what Emmett tended to call _canoodling_.

“ _That_ would be too much of a risk,” Emmett whispered, wistful. He wasn't doing such a great job of looking away. He was staggering somewhat, too, given Marty only had him by the elbow now.

“We can go back to the storeroom later,” Marty muttered under his breath. “If you don't pass out.”

“If you wiseguys aren't gonna share with the class, I'm outta here,” Sylvia told them, striding ahead.

Marty genuinely hoped that she wasn't angry, but it was too late now. She had to go be Trixie for a while, and _he_ had to find two seats at one of the tables set up in the square before Emmett was down for the count. Fortunately, weaving them in and out of the milling crowd, he spotted a half-empty table along the hedge that wasn't too far from the stage. It had two other occupants.

Sylvia waved from the stage as Marty dumped Emmett into one of the empty wooden chairs.

“You might have asked if those were occupied,” said the hatted, dark-haired young woman across from Marty as he took the seat next to Emmett. “As it happens, they aren't, but it would have been polite.” She squinted past the lantern centerpiece. “Martin McFly? You're the Browns' foundling, aren't you,” she added with distaste, turning to the teenage boy next to her. “Steer clear of that one, Gerald.”

“Hey, Miss Strickland,” Marty sighed, recognizing only too late who they'd managed to get mixed up with. “You make it sound like I turned up in a basket on their doorstep. Give me some credit, huh?”

“Drifting from place to place and taking advantage of naïvely-offered charity's hardly an honorable pursuit, Mr. McFly,” said Gerald. “At least that's what my sister says. Why'd you have to take up with the richest family in town when you had cousins here? Too broke for you? Those Irish—”

“In case you hadn't _noticed_ ,” Emmett interrupted, his temper rising, and Marty realized that if he didn't defuse this as quickly as possible, Edna and Emmett would be at each other's throats just like every time Edna picketed or pamphleted the courthouse with some new cause and Emmett made it his personal lunch-break crusade to evict her, “old man William's no ray of sunshine, and Arthur's got a new wife and son to look after. You think either one of them could take Marty in?”

“The Browns have been good to me,” Marty said, setting a hand on Emmett's arm, “and I've paid my way by working in the courthouse with Emmett. If you're seriously that determined to exterminate drifters and ne'er-do-wells like me, just file a suit already. Or go discuss it with Hitler. _Jesus_.”

Edna looked so furious for a moment—and, given current events in Europe, _anybody_ would be after a such a blow—that Marty thought she might lunge across the table and slap him. Instead, her expression grew calm; she turned her hawkish attention on Emmett without so much as blinking.

“I shouldn't wonder,” she said, “but maybe your...what, your _brother_?...is onto something.”

Emmett kicked the nearest table leg, causing Marty to jump, incandescent with rage. “ _Fascist_.”

“Young _man_ ,” said Edna, coolly, and something about her emphasis made Marty's skin crawl, “don't be absurd. I'm every bit as much of a patriot as your parents' butchered surname suggests _you_ are.”

“Aw _jeez_ , look at the time!” Sylvia screeched over the microphone, causing everyone to groan and cover their ears. “I'm sorry, folks, for gettin' started slightly late. I bet you've all missed me, haven't ya, since Kid and company got shut down? I thought as much. How 'bout I fix it?”

Marty kept Emmett from attempting to rise from his seat while everyone else—everyone except the Strickland siblings, who seemed to be awaiting Emmett's reaction with the thin-lipped smiles of martyrs—clapped, whistled, and shouted for Sylvia, for _Trixie_ , to start singing already.

“Okay, I'm sorry,” Marty hissed, adding his applause to the racket. “Everybody at this table loves America, blah _blah_ , whatever. It's just—you've gotta admit you get intense about your causes,” he whispered to Edna, shifting his hand from Emmett's forearm to his wrist. “How about we all just cool down and listen to the music? No harm, no foul. Let's...not talk to each other, how about that.”

Gerald muttered something under his breath that caused Emmett to break into an exaggeratedly worried expression. Marty hadn't caught much more than the ending consonant, and he'd decided to ignore it.

“Don't,” Emmett hissed, squeezing Marty's hand under the table, clasping it tightly against his thigh as Sylvia got the orchestral-track record set up behind her. “We shouldn't provoke them any further.”

Edna unpinned her hat and set it on the table in front of her, studying Marty as Sylvia began to sing.

_You are the promised kiss of springtime_  
_that makes the lonely winter seem long._  
_You are the breathless hush of evening_  
_that trembles on the brink of a lovely song._

Emmett's fingers interlaced with Marty's tightened imperceptibly; Marty squeezed back. If Edna and her snot-nosed brother were getting a self-righteous kick out of this, Marty hoped they were happy.

_You are the angel glow that lights a star;_  
_The dearest things I know_  
_are what you are._

Edna leaned across the table, near enough that Marty could feel her breath on his cheek. Emmett, still riding out the flush of intoxication, was rapt as Sylvia went on. He hadn't let go of Marty's fingers, though; if anything, he was daring somebody to look down, daring somebody to _notice_.

“Looks like he's only got eyes for blondes,” said Edna, wistfully. “Such a pity, Martin, isn't it?”

Gerald, having overheard, broke out snickering into his glass of lemonade. “Yeah, a real shame.”

“I'm having trouble concentrating because these—these _assholes_ won't shut up,” whispered Marty, loudly, getting to his feet, tugging Emmett along with him. “Let's go somewhere quieter.”

“I hope I misheard you,” said Edna, raising her voice above the swell of strings. “I surely hope so.”

“Don't think you did, Edie,” Gerald said, putting on wide, hurt eyes. “I don't think I can repeat it.”

“Wait fifty years,” Marty said, tightening his hold on Emmett's arm. “You'll swear like a sailor.”

Gerald got a nasty glint in his eye. “Think I don't know what I oughta call the likes of _you_?”

“Miss Strickland,” said Emmett, brushing back his hair (which, thanks to the humidity, had already managed to escape any semblance of pomade-induced order), “may I suggest you get this—this _child_ under control before I decide to report you for disturbing the peace?”

Edna glanced around the square, lips pursed, smacking Gerald's shoulder just as Sylvia began to sing again as the interlude receded. “We're most likely even for this round, I think, _Mis_ ter Brown,” she said.

_Someday, my happy arms will hold you,_  
_and someday I'll know that moment divine_  
_when all the things you are_  
_are mine._

Emmett was white-faced, ready to storm the table, but Marty hauled him off as the crowd applauded. He struggled in Marty's grasp, but they were already halfway back to the shadow-side of the courthouse where there were still couples getting up to mischief. _Good for them_ , Marty thought.

Bristling, Emmett sounded like he'd started to sober up. “Did you—Marty, did you _hear_ —”

“Yeah, she knows how to swing a syllable all right,” Marty agreed, tugging Emmett by the wrist now, making a bee-line for the back entrance. “They're assholes, Emmett. Like I said. Both of them.”

“She knows, she _must_ , how could I have been so foolish? She's observant enough, and there were rumors,” Emmett groaned. “She's a little older than we are, so she'd have heard—”

“I don't care what she says,” Marty insisted, dragging Emmett inside the courthouse, nudging him up a tight spiral staircase once they'd reached the end of the hall. “I don't fucking care what _anyone_ says, not anymore.” Emmett seemed reassured by their trajectory; he dashed ahead. “Got it?”

“You do realize we have less than twenty minutes until the clock goes off again?” asked Emmett, breathlessly, tugging Marty up the last few stairs into the heat of the courthouse's highest point.

“Why don't you make the most of it?” Marty challenged, grinning at him. “I was a killjoy earlier.”

Emmett stared blankly to their right, watching one of the clock's massive arms tick upward in silhouette. It was about twenty feet away; the wide, open attic might have made for an interesting office, Marty thought, if you could get it livable. At the moment, it was dusty storage space.

Emmett led Marty along the wall until they reached something covered in old canvas that wasn't too tall or lumpy or dangerous-looking. He hopped up on it, kicking with his heels verify that it was something along the lines of a table or a stack of crates. He tugged Marty in by the shoulders, kissing him slow and deep, apparently satisfied that Marty wouldn't have to either bend or go up on tiptoe.

“Better hold me up,” Marty muttered between kisses, thrillingly lightheaded. “My knees'll give.”

Emmett unbuttoned Marty's trousers, his fingers slipping inside. “I hope so,” he said, giving Marty a few strokes, satisfied at how quickly that got his attention. “This _might_ be our chance to—”

“No,” replied Marty, adamantly, getting Emmett's trousers open enough to expose him. “It's still too soon, you _know_ it's too soon, I won't...” He dropped down, wincing as he hit the floorboards. 

Emmett pinned Marty's hands in place on his thighs, breath escaping on a whine as Marty sucked him. “It's been eight _months_ ,” he gasped. “The scar's fine, what's _inside_ is fine, you could hardly cause any— _Marty_ , I wish—I wish you'd let—”

“You don't have anything to prove,” Marty whispered, pushing Emmett's shirt up just far enough to kiss the scar low across his belly before getting back to his feet, painfully hard now, and pressing up against him. “And neither do I, okay?” He kissed Emmett's cheek, his neck, the shell of his ear, nuzzling and biting until Emmett, thighs clamped tight on Marty's hips, trapped him. “ _Mmm_. That's—”

“Fine,” Emmett gritted out, almost petulant, but this was a great angle for him, all damp heat and friction, so Marty closed his eyes and let the pinch of Emmett's fingernails through the fabric of his shirt do the rest. “I'll just have to _imagine_ you're making those sounds because you're...”

 _Inside me_. So effortless, for Marty's brain to supply the rest, and even _more_ effortless to shudder and give over to the pleasure Emmett could wring from him as easy as flipping a switch.

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” Marty winced, sagging into Emmett with a shiver. “Hey, that's it, keep moving.”

Emmett's breath was harsh in his hear, one hand roughly fisted in Marty's hair and the other splayed between his shoulder blades. “My shirt's probably ruined this time,” he panted. “Thanks.”

“Listen, I finally got you a lounge singer down in the hide-out,” Marty scoffed, grinning, grinding into him even if it was kind of uncomfortable for him now. “That must count for _something_.”

“Not till she...actually sings there...” Emmett nosed his way beneath Marty's collar, pressing his open mouth to the sensitive skin he found there. He bit down, trembling, the tension in him going slack.

“I think we can arrange that,” Marty reassured him, grounded by the sting of it. “Hey, _hey_.”

Emmett made a soft, worn-out sound, kissing the spot he'd just marked. “Eleven minutes,” he said.

Marty disentangled himself from Emmett's four-limbed embrace, kissed Emmett's forehead, and started putting his clothes back together. There was absolutely _nothing_ they could do about the wet spots, short of stealing the canvas to cover them. Emmett grinned at him, buttoning up.

“I'd love to see the look on Edna's face,” Marty admitted, stifling his laughter. “Except not really.”

Once he'd gotten his shirt tucked back in, Emmett tugged Marty forward by his shoulders. “Truth.”

This was the kiss Emmett had wanted earlier, he was pretty sure, the kind you used to say _mine_.

“Oh _jeez_ ,” said somebody off in the semi-darkness, footsteps hesitantly approaching. “Guys.”

Marty glared hard at Sylvia while Emmett groaned and let his forehead hit Marty's shoulder in shame.

“If you've got anything to say about this, you're gonna say it to _me_ ,” he said. “Just me, okay?”

Sylvia let her gloved hand fall from her mouth, her shock fading to stark contrition. “I got nothin'.”

Emmett lifted his head, maybe squinting at her; Marty couldn't see his face. “My parents are aware.”

Marty watched Sylvia's eyes, unfocused for a second, before her lips quirked. “That's _somethin'_.” 

“Maybe don't tell Artie just yet?” Marty suggested, helping Emmett off whatever he'd been sitting on. 

“ _Or_ his old man,” Sylvia agreed, nodding slowly. “I mean, George'll see what he'll see. Kids are sharp,” she sighed, readjusting her hat. “It's hot as blazes up here. Why doncha come down?”

“You mean you don't care?” Emmett asked, chagrined, glancing down at his clothes. “Not at all?”

“Surprised is more like it, but...” Sylvia tilted her head at Emmett, eyes soft. “Kid, I already knew.”

“You mean about...” Marty gestured vaguely between himself and Emmett. “Or, uh. Sylvia, _listen_ —”

“I know people in this town oughta keep their fuckin' traps shut,” she said. “Mind their own business.”

Emmett gave her a relieved smile. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear _that_ ,” he replied.

As if on cue, the courthouse clock struck eleven. Marty caught Emmett before he could double over in agony at the clamor, covering his ears for him, grimacing as his own eardrums took the full brunt.

Sylvia stuck her fingers in her ears, the sound of her giggling lost beneath the overwhelming din.

“Yeah, let's go downstairs!” Marty shouted as the last strike shook the rafters. “Gin? More music?”

“Not gonna lie, some booze sounds A-plus!” Sylvia agreed, unplugging her ears. “Maybe one more number. How 'bout a private audience?” She winked at Emmett. “Somethin' you can dance to.”


End file.
